Monday, 30 November 2015

The storm that drenched the Yorkshire hills in rain,That lashed at Gordale Scar and Malham tarnAnd sent its drops to congregate and merge,And travel where the rivulets converge,Becomes a gushing, noisy, stony streamThat rushes underground. And in my dreamI sense approaching flood. Through market townsAnd drab industrial scenes, through old nightgowns,Through valley bottoms, all along the bed,And clean white sheets. And quilts will not be spared.The liquid flows unstoppable. I dreadTo move but sensing torrent, lie impaired.I'm forty six and still I'm not prepared.Through Keighley, Leeds and Bradford it has flowedSloughed off such rubbish all along its wayAnd clots of flotsam gifts are now bestowed,And still it charges on across the plain,In desperation till it meets the tide.And rises o'er the banks at break of day.

Saturday, 28 November 2015

I sit in blackness and I seem to stare
But yet see solely with my inner eye
And flit about in search of something rare:
The place where thoughts with greater meaning lie,
Waiting for a chance encounter with a butterfly.
I sit in solitude and do not care
I'll find some bright, new flower if I try,
I sit in blackness and I seem to stare
Eluded by this blossom small and fair.
I touch on things which do not multiply,
On war and peace and even upon prayer.
But yet see solely with my inner eye
And inexperienced find only "why?"
No sophisticated daisy chain leads where
Philosophy brings clarity, I sigh
And flit about in search of something rare
A random Googling for something to declare
Unique, original, my own which will defy
All counter argument. Instead I find I share
The place where thoughts with greater meaning lie
With stupid pigs, which come out of their sty
To drag in trivia and to layer
It in between the flowers; and that they satisfy.
I'm a mental Mail Online; I am despair.
I sit in blackness.

Friday, 27 November 2015

I did not understand that there was joyIn long wet miles and freezing icy air,In endless throwing of some half chewed toy,Or combing seeds and burrs from matted hair.I could not know in all my life before,The joy of morning greeting, the renewal.That poem of deep, unspoken love which moreThan any mere aubade can fuelSuch fire as keeps a love alight,Sans jealousy or meanness or suspicion.A flame that burns not with desire;Nor yearning for a meeting of two minds,Is never satisfied but by imagination,But simply re-establishes, confirmsIn gentle nuzzling, or in wild excessOf bouncing, heart-felt, crazy tenderness,A bond of love that binds without condition.

Saturday, 21 November 2015

Do you really think that GodRequires an imbecile like youTo prove that He is "greater?"Can't you recognise the DevilAnd his message of corruptionWhen he whispers in your heartAnd tells you what to do?Do you really think that GodWould trust a coward and a traitor?Don't you recognise the devil?Shall I make an introduction?Mr Iblis, meet a moron,Up till now he's been a fan,Just a passive spectatorBut today he has decided That he really loves destructionAnd his tiny brain cannot containSuch basic informationAs the rather simple notionThat we instil in our childrenGood's superior to evil:So he's ripe for your seduction.He has come to join IsilYour most recent, vile inventionAnd he won't put off till laterWhat he wants to do today.For his cretinous affectionFor your habits, is his affliction,And he's pious in his actionAnd his manner of devotionThough he knows not who you are,Believing you are God,The Divine and the Creator,Yet believes himself to beThe great adjudicatorQuite capable of choosingWho should live and who should die.And he wishes to impress youWith his ignorant intentionAs he blows the world apartShouting Allahu Akbar.

Sunday, 15 November 2015

On this day of making cider in the kitchen,Of crushing apples in the hired press;On this day of standing chopping, bashing, squashing;This day of pulverising flesh;This day of my transformingWhat the passing of three seasonsHad created, whole and perfect, Into something broken, smashed, where stressAnd weight and force and pressureWere applied, and where corruptionWill be encouraged: this day of turning more to less;On this day of life revolvingRound this simple, homely task -Let me remember Those souls who now are passingFrom this life into the next,On this fourteenth of November,And let me ask:Why should we weep and sing the HostiasFor fellow men, who yesterday, perhaps,Were standing, laughing, joking in the kitchen;Why tolerate this derelictionThis insanity that passes for religion,This turning what is lovely, whole and perfectCreated through the passing of each season,Our life and liberty and reason,Into a pint of piss?